Bald Men in Suits
by walked-into-the-sky
Summary: Because there are some things that never really leave.  Some reactions that can't be escaped.  Post-SoH drabble.


Bald Men in Suits

Companion piece to Waking Dream, can be read on its own.

Less than 800 words, because who cares about setting the scene, right?

A little bit of Bobby/Courtney.

Summary: Because there are some things that never really leave. Some reactions that can't be escaped. Post-SoH drabble.

* * *

><p>Courtney takes a sip of wine and looks up at Bobby, a comment about perhaps accompanying Mark on a double date with his new <em>beau <em>the next time the three of them are in the same city on the tip of her tongue, and it happens.

The little bell over the door, the one that rings whenever a new customer walks into the little restaurant, jingles a bit behind her. Bobby's eyes drift lazily over her shoulder to look at whoever just entered.

And then his face—

It's like she's looking at a horrible caricature of this man she's known so well and for so long. All the color leaves his cheeks, his fingers tighten on his fork, his knuckles turn white, a muscle starts working in his jaw—then, his lips are pulling back from his teeth in a terrible snarl and his eyes, once so content, are so hard and cold and she thinks, in a moment of wild and completely understandable fear, that he's going to get up and pick up some heavy object—maybe the wine bottle, breaking it would make it a suitable weapon—and attack the person in the door.

And then she realizes that, through and despite the shock to her system, there's something vaguely familiar about this person sitting across from her—this person who looks so much like her boyfriend, but just _isn't_.

Courtney experiences something close to hysteria then and it's all she can do not to drag his attention back to her and scream in his face: _who are you?_

"Bobby," she whispers frantically, because his arms shift and she thinks he's going to get to his feet and do something horrible, "_Bobby!_"

And then, out of nowhere and at the sound of her voice, he blinks, the disturbing and unrecognizable expression fades so quickly she suddenly wonders if it had been there at all, and turns back to her, his lips twitching into a smile.

"What do you think of this spaghetti sauce—I dunno if they cooked—Courtney?"

It must be written all over her face, but it's like he doesn't even remember. Courtney can't meet his eyes, not again, not after what she'd just seen in them, so she settles for looking at his forehead and trying to find words.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Bobby sounds deeply concerned, but she doesn't know what to say and she doesn't know what to think and she just can't erase the image of that expression from the backs of her eyelids.

Still, she opens her mouth to reply, but someone passes their table. Courtney swings her head to stare—because it she gets a good look at the person who'd brought it on, maybe she'll be able to understand, maybe she can prevent another one, maybe she'll never have to see a change like that in Bobby Pendragon ever again—and finds a tall man, a bald man, wearing an expensive business suit and carrying a brief case, being lead to a table in the far corner by the hostess.

And then, and this is something she'll never be able to explain, her stomach contracts with a fear more palpable than even the one that Bobby had just left her with. Her breath catches and she blinks rapidly. It's a sensation she's never felt before, but she recognizes it somehow.

It's the same way she'd felt she'd seen that _other_ Bobby before—she just _knows _that she _has_. She must have. Nothing else can possibly explain the feelings, the terror—

"Courtney," Bobby reaches across the table and grabs her hand. She drags her eyes away from the bald man and stares at him. Somehow, strangely, though he's back to the way he was before and though she can't see any trace of that _look_ in his worried frown, it's like she's seeing him, meeting him for the first time. She swallows hard.

"Courtney," he repeats firmly, "What is it? What's wrong?"

She doesn't know what makes her do it, but she's not about to analyze it. If she never has to think about this moment again, she figures she'll die happy.

"It's nothing," she says and takes another sip of wine.


End file.
